


Tales from Azeroth: The Curse of Darkshire

by Lady_Sylendra



Series: Tales from Azeroth [1]
Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Horror, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Sylendra/pseuds/Lady_Sylendra
Summary: It is the duty of every member of the Explorer's League to travel the forests, lands, and waters of Azeroth in search of its greatest legends and myths.The following manuscript recounts the investigation of a small isolated farming community in the eastern forests of Duskwood and the strange events that occurred during Hallow's End.~Lady Sylendra Nightweave-Archaeological Magistrate, Explorer's League
Series: Tales from Azeroth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893757
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

The sun was supposedly shining somewhere over Duskwood. So aptly named for the perpetual twilight that lay upon the land, the sky overhead was ashen with smoky clouds. Two soldiers of the Darkshire Night Watch went in silence down the hill through the sylvan vale of Tranquil Gardens Cemetery, their breath formed a cloudy trail behind them in the stale cold humid air that never stirred and so never lost the stench of decay. A dense almost viscous vapor swirled around their boots as they walked beneath the aged gnarled ash and maple trees, the branches like long knotted fingers steepled over the narrow winding path. At last they approached a rusted iron archway that was deeply shrouded by moss and vines. An equally overgrown iron fence stretched away in either direction until it disappeared into the surrounding misty woods. It was a path they had tread too many times before and they still went carefully, without haste, and without sound. They held their scabbards close to their bodies to silence the squeak of their leather armor and held their torches high, their shadows painting ghastly shapes upon the crumbling moss covered tombstones they passed. They cast their light over each grave, never lingering and never sparing a glimpse at the names, lest they bring an unneeded painful memory but occasionally pausing to listen though sound did not carry far here. 

They approached a modest ancient stone crypt, its columned facade and wrought iron gate lay in ruins under strangling ashen grey vines, the countless thick tendrils wrapped the structure like a sickly twisted Stranglethorn python. They met each other’s eye briefly then went around to the right side of the structure, holding their torches aloft to examine the side wall. Loose broken stones lay scattered outside an opening in the crypt wall which had been recently patched with stone and plaster. The taller of the two stepped closer, held his torch near a gap between the plaster and wall and peered inside. The oppressive darkness inside seemed almost untouched by his torch, but he could just make out the shape of a massive stone sarcophagus that lay mostly covering the opening of a yawning black hole in the dirt floor. He turned his ear to listen. His companion turned her gaze to the dark woods that surrounded all of Darkshire and stared at a spot in the trees. After a moment she moved her torch in various directions, trying to see into the inky blackness of the forest. 

He heard them. Down in the hole. The soft noises made him shudder, he felt bile rise in his throat. He heard the slow ragged imitation of breathing and the thin sound of feeble clawing. He turned away and exhaled a shaky breath, the mist of it clinging to his face in the unmoving, fetid air. He waved the mist away and seeing his companion, touched her shoulder. She slowly turned, pulling her eyes from the wood and gave him a non-committal shrug. They continued on their route. 

They moved along the inside perimeter of the cemetery, never closer to the dense forest than necessary. They were nearly to their next inspection site, swaying torches and weaving through graves along the way when a voice drifted to her from just outside her torch’s light and made her turn . A fleeting black shape darted away along the ground. Her sharp intake of breath caused her companion to turn to her and again he placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Something out there. On all fours.” Her voice was as soft as a breath but he heard her plainly.

“Wolf?” It was a hopeful question.

She didn’t respond immediately then shook her head, “Did you hear the voice?”

He couldn’t see her face but he heard the shakiness in her breath. He had heard something just before and it hadn’t been a sound a wolf could make.

“Let’s just check the big one and we’ll leave. I won’t tell if you don’t.” He said. She nodded and they diverted to a worn path that led to the grandest and most infamous crypt, though the name of the family had been lost for some time. They crested a small hill, their steps silent on the pale grass that never grew but lay in an almost perfectly preserved state of decay. 

Only a quick sweep around the tomb, past that damned doorway, then back to the village, he encouraged himself. As they drew nearer the nefarious crypt, the stories he heard in his childhood came unbaden to his mind. He felt a seeping sense of nausea begin gathering in the pit of his stomach. The atmosphere felt slightly different here. It felt charged like the air before a storm. He grew all too aware of the feeling of his heart pounding faster in his chest and with each step the nausea swelled until he could again taste the bile in the back of his throat. Something was wrong about this place. The fire of their torches flooded the vast stone mauseoleum with weak dancing light. Their eyes immediately fell upon the accursed doorway which according to local legend had been sealed for centuries with an immense dark iron slab. The slab was known in the village as the Darkshire Dark Portal for its sinister and lewd carvings and the strange sensations of vertigo some felt when too close. The old folk said it was a portal to hell and that within lay the source of the mysterious power responsible for the dead ceaselessly rising from their graves. He had always considered the old folk to be too fond of their superstitions, but at last, as he and his companion stood before the mausoleum, looking down at the contemptible dark iron slab that was not standing, but laying flat on the ground before a doorway no one had ever seen opened. An immense almost liquid darkness filled the doorway that their lights could not seem to touch.

After a moment of shocked silence without word he drew his sword and she her axe simultaneously, the sounds magnified in the silence. 

“What do we do?” she whispered after they had stood motionless for what seemed like forever.

He didn’t answer. His mind and heart were racing. They both knew the protocol. They should briefly inspect the crypt for any sign of undead, attempt to destroy anything unliving they find, then see if they could lift the slab back in to place to close it off to prevent more leaving their place of eternal slumber, then run as quickly as possible back to Darkshire.. Hopefully all without dying.

“Do you hear that?” Her voice trembled. He was alarmed at her fear. He felt he could scarcely hear her over his own racing heart and quickened breath, so he strained his ears not actually wanting to hear what it was that scared her so. But he heard them. All around them like a soft breeze. Voices whispering. Or, was it coming from the doorway?

He knew what he had to do. Steeling himself, he moved toward the opening. He indicated for her to watch their backs. She turned and watched they way they had came. The fog was growing thicker and the temperature fell as the sun had completely set out there behind the fantastically sloped and forested hills. If something approached them she would not have much warning. 

At the doorway he swayed slightly. It was freezing. The whispering grew like a soft rising wind yet he could still discern no meaning. He entered sword drawn, torch first, he felt the ice cold blackness swallow him whole. He entered a square stone anteroom with a passage on either side. He took the left side, came around a dividing wall and gasped as a sickly foul odor filled his nostrils. The smell was… Pungent. Burning. He gagged at the stench. It was worse than death, but what was it? He covered his mouth and moved about the crypt. A few recessed alcoves held skulls and melted candles and at the center of the chamber was a stone sarcophagus similar to the one he had seen in the first tomb. Though the stone floor beneath his feet seemed whole and unbroken unlike the other, upon further inspection the floor had deep gouges in the stones radiating out in various directions from beneath the stone sarcophagus. He stepped closer to the large stone object to look for a name to perhaps finally lay to rest the terrible mystery of the Darkshire Dark Portal, but the surface was so worn down he could see nothing. He felt around the edges, fingers seeking the indentation of a lid, but found none. The whispers began to fall and rise almost to a rhythm. He moved around trying to locate the source but the sounds faded when he moved away from the smooth stone block. He approached it again. 

_Yes, here_. He slowly leaned down to press his ear flat against the stone surface to listen. 

A twig snapped and she turned towards the dark brush She lifted her torch and the fire caught the red shine of two eyes low to the ground. One wolf, probably. No problem, she told herself. The eyes continued to watch her. She was completely unnerved by their stillness. Thunder cracked above her. From behind her inside the tomb she heard the raucous clang of metal on stone. She turned and dashed to the door, she threw a fleeting glance behind her and saw the eyes were gone.

  
It had seen him. It stretched his mind, he was falling. It was agony. He dropped his torch and sword and clutched at his head. He fought back a scream that filled his mind or was he screaming out loud? The voices swirled around his head like a bladestorm. He felt a touch and whipped around, fists whirling at the unknown force. 

"It's me," she said in a strained whisper, shaking his shoulder and looking into his eyes. "What's wrong? Look at me!" His head was spinning. He couldn't focus his eyes. He vomited.

  
He looked at her again and she came more into focus. He saw the fear in her eyes and suddenly the voices were gone replaced with a throbbing pain between his temples.   
“What happened?” she asked, her strong arms under his hoisted him to his feet. He didn’t answer, his vision whirled. He was too dizzy.

“We need to go,” she pleaded. He did not need told twice but he did need help orienting himself towards the door, which she did with a strong guiding grip on his arm. He clumsily took up his torch and sword. His arms were numb, like jelly. They didn’t feel like his. Were they? Another peal of thunder burst above them as they hurried from the crypt. The sound startled him and his vision slid more into focus. His limbs felt stronger. 

“Wolves in the woods.. I think.. I don’t think they’ll chase us if we hur--,” she said, her eyes darted to the woods. They froze when they saw something only a few yards in front of them. Its thin body barely a silhouette in the dense fog that had rolled in. The shine of its red eyes reflecting in their torch light loomed over them several yards above the ground. A deep growl issued from the unseen form. 

They looked at each other in the trembling fire light, his hands were shaking. It began to rain.

Lightning flashed and they briefly saw the full form of the massive corrupted worgen that lurked before them. Darkness returned and they watched the eye shine slowly lower to the ground, a snarl told them it was preparing to attack. They raised their torches and weapons, ready to meet the accursed beast. The air above them exploded with thunder and the ground beneath their feet trembled. From behind them, inside the tomb, they heard a dreadful cacophony of shrieks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the prologue to the first story from a planned series called Tales from Azeroth!
> 
> Explore the World of Warcraft, before the events of Wrath of the Lich King, on a smaller more intimate scale with alternating stories from the Alliance and Horde. Each story is painstakingly researched and written to be as close to canonized lore as possible, but with a few allowances for creative purposes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this upcoming story as much as I enjoyed writing and researching it. Thank you!


	2. The Descent

The Emerald Dream is a vast, ever-changing spirit world that exists outside the physical boundaries of the waking world. It is a place of energy, life, and visions, but also many secrets. Even the Night Elf Druids, who may enter the Emerald Dream, do not fully understand its true purpose. Some say the Dream is the spiritual reflection of how Azeroth looked when the Titans first created it. Some believe it is the living soul of Azeroth itself and that the Dream is the energy responsible for all life on the physical world. Legends say the Dream was once accessible to all mortals by way of four mystical portals scattered over the face of Azeroth, but these gateways have either been lost to time or inactive since before living memory. 

Madame Eva gazed deeply into the crystal ball which held a pale swirling green mist, despite the blindness of old age that clouded and dulled her once bright brown eyes. The past few years had taken away the last of her physical sight but it had not touched her true Sight. She waved a wrinkled hand over the crystal, willing her stiff arthritic fingers to make the delicate gestures necessary to See. Earlier that day as she dozed sleepily next to the warm fire in her little cottage she had been disturbed by a sudden strange dream of grim portents. She hoped the dream had been caused by some questionable Dalaran sharp she had eaten with previous night's supper and that a quick sitting before her crystal would alleviate her distress.

She waved her hand again and at last the pale green mist parted and at its inky center a form took shape in the image of her intended vision. She gazed at her most cherished, her grandson Lohgan. She Saw him standing in a dark grove of twisted trees. She leaned closer to see a look of sharp defiance etched in his handsome features and a smile crossed her lips. She recognized in Lohgan’s left hand he held the special divine tome she had recently given him on his 18th birthday. In his right hand a shadowy sphere pulsed and floated in his open palm. 

Satisfied, she began to adjust her vision with new intent but then a black liquid mist formed and surrounded her grandson's figure. The mist writhed repulsively and Lohgan drew back as shapeless shadowy claws slashed at him. Her brows furrowed in concern as she watched part of the strange mist grow larger until it seemed to form a black doorway. From within the inky void, another dark shape formed and stalked towards Lohgan's turned back. She waved her hand over the crystal and the form became more defined. She made out what seemed to be a massive panther with fur the color of shadow, eyes that glowed silvery white, and large pointed fangs. Madame Eva watched in terror as the beast bounded forwards toward her grandson.

The door to the cottage burst open, startling Madame Eva nearly out of her seat, and around the room candles were extinguished as if by a strong gust of wind, and she felt a slow creeping chill coming from the open doorway.

Squinting, she could just make out a figure standing in the doorway. Madame Eva called out, "Lohgan, is that you?"

The silence that followed nearly stilled her heart. The figure moved and Madame Eva impossibly saw two illuminated silvery eyes looking right at her. She let out a terrible scream.

Behind his grandmother's stone cottage Lohgan Eva was hard at work, tending the garden, and picking potatoes, onions, and carrots for a stew. He had just considered the thought of surprising his gran with a nice rabbit, when the sound of her scream sent him running.

"Gran?" He called as he raced inside the darkened cottage he found her cowering at her crystal ball, staring wide eyed at the open front doorway.

She turned towards his voice and pointed with a shaking hand to the door. Lohgan went out through the front door to search for the disturbance. The porch was empty and so was the road that stretched west to the plaza of Darkshire and east through dark misty woods. Lohgan went with a lanern carefully around the entire perimeter of the home, and returned through the front door, closing it behind him. 

"I didn't see anything, are you all right?" He asked, but she was already making her way around the room lighting candles with a snap of her fingers, each wick bursting to life with a tiny golden flame. 

"Oh, all right now, dear. Nearly scared to death by the wind," her voice was smiling and Lohgan relaxed as she settled herself in her favorite rocking chair near the fire. "But I think I could do with a strong cup of tea, would you mind?"

Lohgan set about filling the kettle and setting another dry log on the fire with a shower of red embers. After a few moments the silence told him his grandmother was not going to explain what happened unbidden, so he took up her favorite woolen shawl, placed it around her shoulders and asked pointedly what she had seen.

She did not speak until he had placed a steaming mug of strong Peacebloom tea in her hands and she had taken a grateful sip.

"I See a stranger," she began at last, her voice ominous. "I See acts of unspeakable evil in the village. So much death and darkness." She turned her head towards him, brows knitted in affectionate concern. "I'm afraid we're in grave danger, my love. I believe I have Seen the end of Darkshire." Her voice trailed off.

Lohgan patted her arm in reassurance, "We've faced death and darkness since I was born. How much worse can it really get?" He hoped his voice sounded jovial.

Madame Eva couldn't help but smile, her grandson's positive demeanor never failed to brighten her spirit. "I'm afraid, this time is different. You've seen the darkness grow around us every year.. I don't think Darkshire will last through this winter."

Lohgan frowned, he knew she was right, as a Seer she usually was. It was October which meant harvest season, but this year he had seen with his own eyes the tiny collection of grain that would have been enough for a few small families, but certainly not the entire village of Darkshire, even with its steadily dwindling population. It was all thanks to his grandmother's foresight, long before he was born, that she expanded her small garden plot, and added rows and rows of vegetables and fruits that had always kept Lohgan and his grandmother well stocked with food. The locals regarded Madame Eva with slight suspicion as her garden seemed the only bit of land untouched by the corruption of Duskwood and even the undead who wandered the surrounding woods seemed to avoid the cottage. Lohgan knew it was only with his grandmother's diligent care, her knowledge in alchemical potions, and her skills in holy magic that protected their home from the shadowy forces that ever threatened them. 

"What can we do?" Lohgan asked. "Can we stop it?"

For a minute she did not answer, then in a misty voice replied, "I'm not sure if we'd want to... I cannot say more. I have Seen, but perhaps I do not fully understand...” She rounded on him suddenly, “Tell me, what have you Seen in your dreams of late?"

"Nothing," Lohgan said much too quickly then took a large steaming gulp of tea which scalded his throat. He had not at all been practicing his meditation, despite his grandmother's frequent reminders.

Madame Eva let out a cackle. "Don't be afraid of your abilities, boy. You have many magical gifts and you must use them or lose them!" She emphasized with a warning finger pointed almost in his direction.

In the distance the dim sound of a bell began to toll.

“Ah, I’m late for the village meeting,” Lohgan stood and gave his grandmother a loud kiss on the forehead, she huffed in response.

* * *

At the Three Corners where the verdant woods of Elwynn Forest met the clay-colored foothills of the Redridge Mountains there lies a crossroads that leads south to the wild twilight valleys of Duskwood. Sylendra Nightweave had followed this road, despite the grave warning of the sole Stormwind Guard who stalwartly patrolled the area. He had told her the place was evil. That anyone who went down that road never came back. Sylendra thanked him for the directions and with the autumn sun warming her back, went south towards an old stone bridge and a wood that seemed, from a distance, similar to Elwynn Forest. 

Upon crossing the bridge the world fell into utter darkness. She looked skyward marveled at shocking transition. She could still feel the residual warmth from the sun in her clothes but it was as if she had stepped into the middle of a starless night. Out of curiosity she crossed back north over the bridge and when she emerged, the day was as bright and warm as it had been before. The Stormwind Guard watched her from the crest of the hill. She turned and crossed the bridge a third time, back into Duskwood. Night again fell around her but she continued down the winding road. As a Night Elf, blessed children of the moon goddess Elune, she did not need to carry a torch for her eyes pierced the velvety darkness like a knife. 

At first the woods reminded her of her own home in the Night Elven capitol of Darnassus, but the trees here were somehow strange. Perhaps it was a trick of the senses, caused by the fantastically sloping hills and the strange way the elders and aspens reached towards the starless sky at odd angles. The tall gnarled trees seemed strangely proportioned and grew so thickly pressed together she could scarcely see more than a few yards off the path she followed.The wind brought with it the smell of dank moss, decay, and something else she couldn’t name, but it was not like the green living forests of Darnassus filled with the delicious scents of ripe berries, sweet long grass, and rich earth. The sun’s warming light had not touched these vales for centuries. Her long pointed ears twitched at the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. The woods were silent and still, the marked absence of birdsong disturbed her. 

She heaved a great sigh when it began to rain and pulled the hood of her thick woolen traveling cloak over her head. As the hours passed and the road twisted ever onward, she began to wonder amusedly if the old guard was right. What if the woods were cursed and she was lost to wander them forever? She walked on and on, the only indication of human habitation she saw were ancient farmsteads, long abandoned, the stone skeleton of a foundation or chimney all that remained. 

At last Sylendra came around a bend where the south-facing hillside and trees fell away to reveal a village cloaked in mist that lay secluded in the glen below her. The view could have been lovely, she thought, but the fog obscured most of the buildings, the vague shape of a tower and a few tall roofs peaked above the mist. Even with her Elven eyes she could see neither lights nor anyone moving in the village and she began to wonder if her information had been too outdated. Had she been too late? Had the villagers already been lost to the peculiar darkness that ever shadowed the land? Sylendra hoped the journey would not be a waste of time. It was true that the Explorer’s League was dedicated to scouring every shadowed cave and ancient ruin in pursuit of even the whisper of myths or fables. Membership in the prestigious society sometimes meant risking life and limb in the untamed jungles of Stranglethorn or the sunken temples in the Swamp of Sorrows. However, as an Archaeological Magistrate of the Explorer’s League, Sylendra’s work had been less exciting, much more clerical, but still absolutely fascinating. All the years she had spent researching the vast libraries of Stormwind, Iron Forge, and Darnassus for historical records pertaining to the varied legends heard around Azeroth and recording and curating the notes and many treasures discovered by other members had sparked in her an insatiable desire for adventure. Down and around another bend of crooked yew and oak trees the road flattened out for the first time since entering Duskwood and she approached the village she had seen from the cliff.

A wrought iron arch stood over the road, emblazoned with ‘Darkshire’ in a flowing rusted script. As Sylendra passed under the arch, a bell began to toll, a shuddering chill touched her back and a cold feeling seeped into her stomach. She was at last relieved to find the village was not abandoned when the figures of the local soldiers carrying torches appeared suddenly out of the dense fog. On her left stood homes of damp rotted wood and tightly shuttered windows. On her right sat the largest building in the village, a two-story tavern that had probably been quite lovely in another lifetime. Flickering lanterns of orange light were now spaced along the cobbled stone street which opened into a quiet plaza. At the center stood a grand three tiered stone fountain that gurgled half heartedly. One tier was encircled by carved lion heads, the proud symbol of Stormwind, but only two of them still spurted water from their grimy fanged mouths. Darkshire consisted of only two roads; the one she had arrived by continued south out of the village and the other exited the plaza in an easterly direction towards the mountains. Guards drifted by her with their torches, faces hidden in shadow, but they paid her only a curious passing glance.

Around the plaza were seated the Town Hall with its tall stately clock tower, the tavern, and the remains of a village blacksmith. Sylendra was startled when she glanced up at the now silent clock tower that read a few minutes after nine. That couldn’t be right, she thought. She had left the inn at Lakeshire early this morning and certainly had not arrived that quickly, but it couldn’t be nine o’clock at night because her journey had not been that long. She looked to the sky and could still see neither sun, moon, nor star. The cold feeling of unease crept back into her stomach. Perhaps the clock had lost time and the villagers had no way to tell having lost the guiding light of the skies. 

After surveying the small village from the plaza she decided the town hall would be the best place to begin. She ascended the crumbling steps and entered a musty anteroom that was dimly lit by a single candle. The carpet underfoot was threadbare and faded to a nearly colorless shade of green and gold. A faint voice carried from a passage to her left. She followed along a dark hall and emerged in the back of a large room filled with shadowed figures seated on long wooden benches. An elderly man wearing a monocle and a faded black silk vest over an old-fashioned ruff lace shirt spoke from a raised lectern at the front of the room.

“The news from Stormwind does not bode well,” his feeble voice drifted over the lifeless audience. Sylendra realized she had walked right into a village meeting as a young man with brown eyes near her turned at her arrival and an oddly terrified look crossed his face when their eyes met. She hurried to the back of the room where the dusky lavender shade of her skin melded with the shadows as she cast the magical glamour unique to her people, and she knew she was no longer visible. The villager indeed looked bewildered at the spot where, to his eye, she had vanished, and a small smile crossed her lips.

“Our cause falls on deaf ears inside the thick, stone walls of Stormwind. Our homes are falling to the undead. The forest is crawling with worgen and ghouls. Something must be done! The Night Watch alone cannot protect us forever. We need the backing of the Stormwind Army. It is my belief that Stormwind finds us to be a lost cause and that we are not worth saving. I made a promise to you all long ago that I would dedicate my life to protect this village and to find the source of this blight and cleanse it from our lands! I am telling you all tonight that I have kept that promise. The Council and I feel we are sufficiently close to the source of this evil and soon we will purge it from our lands by Hallow’s End!” 

The villagers stirred and excited voices floated around the room. 

The man went on quickly, “In the meantime, I’ve planned a special surprise for the whole village to celebrate this momentous occasion. This Hallow’s End we will have a glorious Wickerman ceremony! We will burn away the fears and worries that have plagued our town for centuries! There will be music and dancing, free food and ale,” but whatever he said next was cut off by sudden raucous cheers from the villagers. 

The man surveyed the room with an air of satisfaction. “Now that’s the spirit! This means we should all be getting into the mood for a Hallow’s End festival! Let’s adjourn the meeting and we’ll begin the private Council meeting.” He banged a wooden gavel on the lectern and stepped away to engage the two other Council members in conversation. After a few moments the villagers slowly rose and shuffled past Sylendra, who remained unseen, chatting excitedly while they waited to file out through the doorway. Sylendra saw her opportunity and deciding against her better judgment moved towards the front of the room and approached the Council.

"--last night... And now I know what we must do." She overheard the monocled man whisper to his fellows. She hesitated just out of sight.

"How?" One of them asked.

"A vision," he responded simply.

The two Council members exchanged glances, but third man paid them no mind. "We begin tonight.."

When they said no more, Sylendra stepped forward, up the center aisle and approached the Council.

“Good evening, gentlemen, please pardon the interruption. Are you Lord Ello Ebonlocke?” she asked the monocled man who looked at her in bewilderment. 

“Err, yes, I am,” he said kindly, adjusting the monocle and leaning closer to peer at her. “How may I be off assistance, my dear?”

Sylendra responded with an indulging smile and inclined her head in a polite bow, “My name is Sylendra Nightweave. I am here because of the alarming nature regarding this letter you sent, intended for his Majesty, King Llane.” She pulled an envelope from her bag.

The three men before her exchange meaningful glances then a man to Ebonlocke’s left, wearing a moth eaten black dress coat, asked slowly, “What letter is she speaking of?” He directed his question to Ebonlocke as if she were not there. The man shot out his hand to snatch the letter from Sylendra, but she stepped just out of his reach and began to read aloud.

"There is little hope for us if you do not send forces to our aid. The undead overwhelm our scouts, our livestock does not grow, a pregnancy - human, elven or dwarven - has not been carried to term in two years. The Alliance has abandoned our residents to fuel the undead forces.  
If our pleas remain unheeded, I can only pray that after I fall to the undead I will lead the Scourge against Stormwind so that you will know the horror we live with every day.  
Your loyal servant,  
Lord Ello Ebonlocke”

The silence was palpable as the two council members said nothing, but turned to stare at Ebonlocke. Sylendra found this curious, but continued. “I have been sent to determine the sources of these disturbances and assist in any way I can.”

The man to Ebonlocke’s left croaked out a harsh laugh, “You? Help? We need men, with weapons. Not a librarian.” His eyes traveled over Sylendra’s magisterial robes then lingered on the wooden staff she carried at her side. “We thank you for your assistance, but it is not required.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I do not think King Llane would be happy to have his offer of help so quickly declined, and I, as a loyal citizen refuse to disobey orders from my King. So, as I said, I am here to help.” She said with a tone of strict finality.

The man began to respond but Ebonlocke cut him off. ”Now now, Ambassador.” He chided the man then turned to Sylendra with a gracious smile. “We are immensely grateful for your presence and any support you offer. We are very close to a solution however I believe there is still much you can do. I will have the commander of our Night Watch speak with you after our meeting. In the meantime, might I suggest you wait at the Scarlet Raven Inn and have nice steaming mug of Orena Goldtooth’s famous apple cider?” Lord Ebonlocke said with a wink. 

Sylendra smiled and bowed her head again. “Thank you, my Lord. I am glad for the opportunity to help your people. I shall wait at the Inn.” She turned on her heel to leave and for a split second the villager, who earlier had been startled by her arrival, stood partially concealed in the shadowy doorway watching her. Sylendra was startled to see, for the briefest instant, his eyes had changed to a pearly white before he vanished from view. Curious, she moved to follow him but as she left the town hall he had disappeared among the mass of villagers lingering in the plaza in the swirling fog.


	3. Crystal Visions

Lohgan made the half mile trip in great time and as he reached the town square the familiar specter figures of the Night Watch with their flickering orange torches drifted by him in silence through the fog, like two ships passing in the night. He was a few minutes late but he doubted anyone would notice him, most villagers flat out avoided the Evas, in public anyway. But his stomach gave a twist when a voice rung out behind him, loud in the cobbled stone court, "Hey, Eva," The voice belonged to Hartin, a recent recruit of the Night Watch and son of Councilman Hartin. "I heard your ol' gran struck again. You're both a pox on this town," the voice drifted after Lohgan as he stepped inside the town hall without a word. Most of the villagers were already seated along the long wooden benches and some huddled together exchanging whispered gossip, but no one paid him any attention. He stood in his regular spot, close to the door for the quickest exit, and listened to the quiet conversation around him. The weekly meetings were an utter waste of time, Lohgan sighed. Every week Mayor Ebonlocke stood behind a rickety antique lectern and gathered every able bodied villager in the town hall to lecture them about how they'd been abandoned by the Alliance, that the undead were on the verge of killing them all, and that if not for the constant vigilance of the Night Watch we'd all be doomed to a fate worse than death. The same reassuring and uplifting message every week.

"My dear citizens," Mayor Ello Ebonlocke's tired voice drifted over the townspeople and the hushed talk died away. The old wooden podium on which Ebonlocke stood creaked so noisily in the quiet room as he cleaned his monocle with an ivory lace kerchief, the sound almost drowned out his next words entirely, "as promised last week, another messenger was sent to Stormwind again begging King Llane to help our humble village."

"The news from Stormwind does not bode well," Ebonlocke continued and Lohgan thought, there it is. He fought to stifle a yawn while from the corner of his vision he saw a figure enter the room. He turned and to his utter astonishment his gaze met the silver eyes of a Night Elf. Or at least, he thought he did. His heart pounded and he blinked again, but the Night Elf had vanished so quickly he wasn't entirely sure if he had seen anything at all. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he had had a vision in public. He felt like somehow he had seen those eyes before… As his thoughts raced, he only vaguely heard what Ebonlocke was saying from the front of the room, but his next words snared Lohgan's attention.

"The Council and I feel we are sufficiently close to the source of this evil and soon we will purge it from our lands by Hallow's End!" Ebonlocke proclaimed and the crowd stirred in excitement.

Well, that had never been in one of Ebonlocke's speeches before. Lohgan was overcome by a sudden strange feeling of unease pooling in the pit of his stomach that sent a chill up his spine and he felt the room beneath him spin. He knew the sensation of an impending vision, but he fought the shadows encroaching his mind, he did not want to have one with the entire village to witness it. Lohgan heard Ebonlocke go on to mention a Wickerman festival to celebrate, but he had stopped listening again. His mind buzzed as he gathered himself. He jumped slightly when he realized that the meeting had finished and the townspeople were filing past him to leave. He gave himself a small shake and moved to leave with them, but a voice at the front of the room made him halt.

He saw her for certain this time. A Night Elf woman was speaking with the Council, introducing herself as Sylendra Nightweave. Lohgan had only seen his grandmother's charcoal sketches of Night Elves and was surprised by the cerulean luster of her hair like Lake Everstill under a full moon. As he lingered in the empty doorway to eavesdrop he enjoyed the faintest feeling of relief that she had not been imagined. He could only hear bits of their conversation with the way their voices echoed around the wooden hall and the din of the archaic creaking elevated platform the Council stood upon. He felt the gentle touch of a familiar magical spell seeking his mind's eye and he then let his eyes glaze over, knowing his grandmother was Viewing through his Mind as she sometimes did when she occasionally needed to borrow his physical eyes. She must have sensed his distress and wanted to see what was bothering him. He eyed the stranger's back but when she turned and their eyes met again he felt a shock of horror in his mind that momentarily disoriented him. He felt her withdraw from his mind and beckon him home. He hurried from the town hall and down its crumbling steps, a splash of icy rain from the roof dripped down the back of his neck. He pulled up his hood with a grumble and set off through the misty fog at a brisk pace heading east from the village square, up the road to his grandmother's cottage.

He approached the cottage noisily, his unique signal to alert her of his arrival. As he entered their cozy abode his heart warmed at the familiar smell of firewood and drying herbs and at the sight of his little granny still seated by the fire now deep in her knitting. "What's up, gran?" He asked casually as he added a few dry twigs to the burning pyre in the hearth, watching the red firelight paint dancing shadows on the old stone walls.

"I saw her. The stranger from my visions," She replied but her voice was light-hearted.

Lohgan was confused by her ambivalent reactions of fear then nonchalance. "I couldn't hear much except she's from Stormwind, sent to help Darkshire. I saw her read something from a letter. Do you think she's lying?"

His grandmother took a moment to respond, then with an outstretched hand clawed the air in front of her as if trying to brush away a spider's web he could not see. "There's a peculiar shadow over her, it obscures her intent. I've never seen a Night Elf with that kind of aura. Curious, very curious."

"Do you think she's dangerous?" Lohgan ventured.

To his surprise his grandmother responded with a wheezy chuckle, "Oh, most certainly."

Lohgan knew it was no use asking her anything more than once, the answer Madame Eva gives is the answer you wanted, whether you like or not, he thought in her voice. She often said her greatest gift was not her Vision, but her own wisdom accumulated from a long, weary life. She told him when he was young that she had reached the last stage in the Great Cycle and that her purpose as The Crone was to offer perspective and advice to those who could not or would not See. But not, as she also often said with irritation, to direct them which man to marry or to predict if an effortless fortune will someday be gained.

Lohgan contemplated then released a tense sigh. "I'm sure you know this, but I've not been entirely truthful with you lately."

"Of course, my child. Madame Eva knows when you are troubled; she also knows you will always speak when ready." She said affectionately in the misty voice she reserved for her sparse interactions with the villagers.

He started in what he hoped was a casual tone, "I did have a dream the other night that felt significant. I don't know if it was all a vision, mind you. I think I drift in and out sometimes. Anyways, I went to sleep the other night and as I was dozing off, I heard your voice in the next room. I got up to see if you needed anything and I saw you sitting in here… Having tea with a bear. I don't think that part was the vision though" He grinned.

"Oh, it was a vision all right," she said with a soft chuckle and bade him continue.

The grin fell slightly from his face, but he tried to keep his voice even as he went on. "You waved me over and asked me to do a tarot reading for the bear." He watched for her reaction, but she continued on with her knitting. "So I gathered the cards and sat down before the bear. I shuffled the cards with a rather spectacular flourish and I laid three of them face down.

I turned the first card to reveal The Fool. 'The start of a journey. He says you haven't yet found your place in the world.', I explained to the bear as it sipped tea from the tiny tea cup it held in its huge claws. 'The universe is calling you somewhere, you must decide whether or not you will follow.'

I turned the next card. The High Priestess. 'The High Priestess represents a teacher of divine knowledge, she sometimes means you have something important still to learn before a decision you must make. She also tells me you have a strong spiritual connection that is very important to you.'" He cleared his throat, not wanting to continue but she wordlessly ushered him on.

"I turned the third card. It was The Tower, but the card looked different. It looked like the clock tower in the village.  
'Death… Ruin… Oblivion…' I started chanting the words, but the voice wasn't mine." Lohgan shuddered, remembering the deep rumbling of another being's voice coming from his own mouth. "Then I heard the bell in the village, that obviously means a 'warning' of some sort because then the bear let out a bellowing roar and…" His throat tightened as the vividness of the dream came back in a rush. The horrible sounds of the beast.. The blood everywhere.. "The bear attacked you and I woke up," he ended flatly.

She did not speak for a while. Lohgan was anxious to hear her interpretation, for he did not like his own. "What do you think it meant?" he asked after he could not stand waiting a moment longer.

"Tell me what you think it means," she replied with the phrase she so often used, which in his younger years had irritated him, but now he found endearing.

"But I really want to know what you think, your opinion is very important to me," he argued back with sarcasm, as he often did.

"I can't tell you what you Saw," she said quite sternly and he leaned back, defeated, but with a slight grin on his face.

"I don't know where to start," Lohgan ran his fingers through his black hair as he expelled his thoughts in a rush. "The tarot seems fairly straightforward. It could just be my subconscious showing me how I see my life, I as The Fool, you as The High Priestess, and of course my fear of losing you, The Tower. But I've absolutely no idea about the bear. Am I the bear? Was that reading for myself or the bear? Does the bear represent our dreams of leaving Darkshire? Or is it just the Great Spirits of the Wild telling me to set bear traps around the garden?"

"Lohgan, be serious," she chided, but inwardly adored his grim sense of humor.

Lohgan could not fight the pain growing in his chest, the sick feeling churning his stomach. "Gran. It felt just like those dreams I had each time before mom, dad, then Alyssa died… I'm afraid it means you're going to die." The words made the bile rise in his throat.

Madame Eva said nothing so he continued, the desperate plea in his voice stung her, "But, I'm wrong, right? What do you think it means?"

To his surprise, she laughed, "Of course I'm going to die, I'm a hundred and fifty." She turned her blind eyes on him and as if she were gazing through him said, "I have taught you everything I know. You have brought so much Light and life to this old, weary heart. You must be brave, my love." The words pierced his heart as he understood her meaning without question.

He was silent for a while, enjoying the pleasant crackle of the fire, the soft clicking of knitting needles, and the faint creak of his gran's rocking chair. An idea was beginning to formulate in his mind like clouds gathering before a storm, but it was more than he'd ever dare of himself and it was undoubtedly very stupid.

"All right then. What should I do?" He asked but she tutted at him. "One last hint, gran, come on." He pleaded with her but in an exaggerated melodramatic way.

She huffed and shook a finger in his direction in a threatening but equally sarcastic way. "You're much too old to be needing your grandmother to tell you how to wipe your nose."

She took up her knitting again and after about a minute said, with a smile touching the corner of her mouth, "Make another pot of tea before you go out, dear." He smirked, his brown eyes twinkled in the firelight. Lohgan did as he was told.

He secured the cottage doors and windows before taking up a small black pouch he used for collecting herbs in the wilds and fastening it around his waist. He also took an old wooden wand normally used for conjuring the small hot flames they used for cooking and some alchemical reactions. It wasn't much of a weapon, but the undead that roamed the woods seemed to avoid him with enough light.

He was about ready to leave when he suddenly remembered, "Oh, and I've been having dreams about Mother, dead of course, knocking on my window all hours of the night, yelling 'Get out, get out.'" Lohgan added in a mocking imitation of an undead.

"Don't forget your Tome, my love," was all his grandmother said and he understood that to affectionately mean, 'look it up, you lazy bastard'. He had already placed the so called Tome, a treasured gift from his grandmother, close to his heart in his inner pocket.

"All right. Don't get too crazy with that tea now, I think it makes you cranky," Lohgan warned with a smile as he closed the door. He heard her soft cackle before he set off into the bitter cold twilit night.

* * *

Chilly rain splattered her face as Sylendra stood at the top of the town hall steps and observed as the villagers mingled, some excitedly discussing the festival, others leaving either north or south from the plaza, off to their homes she presumed, thin cloaks pulled tightly against the rain. She discovered most of the villagers had traveled just right next door to the tavern. With nothing to do except wait for instructions, she hurried through the misty haze into the tavern, the creaking wooden sign above, in the shape of a raven in flight, read "Scarlet Raven Inn". She sighed in delight at the warm interior that smelled of ale, smoked meat, and hot spices. A stone brick fireplace held a roaring fire, its blazing heat and light filled the lively drinking hall. Most of the patrons were already deep in their drinks at the closely packed creaking tables, boisterous laughter and conversation buzzed around the room. She found a comfortable high backed chair in an unoccupied corner and removed her leather bag, glad to be free of the weight, and leaned her long wooden staff against the wall. As she settled down, feeling the warmth creeping back into her bones, she could just make out a dwarf weaving through the tables, impossibly laden with countless flowing mugs, the patrons taking a cup from her stack as she went by. The savory aroma of meat and onions wafted from a nearby doorway that led to the kitchen.

A matronly looking dwarf with a cheerful face wearing a worn apron, her long auburn hair drawn up in a tight and elaborate braid bustled over to her, introduced herself as the owner, Orena Goldtooth, and offered Sylendra a slim variety of drink and food. "We don't get much trade here, so we don't have much. Our specialty is my apple cider, with apples from my own trees. We've also got a dwarven stout, a Stormwind tawny, and some Dalaran Noir." Sylendra requested a small portion of bread, cheese, and the famous cider..

Orena returned promptly with a plate and mug. "The drink is on me," She said and Sylendra saw the flash of a gold tooth in the kind smile. "We don't get travelers here much. I'm sure sorry for whatever dark business brings you here."

"Dark business?" Sylendra asked, she found the remark curious.

"Ah, forgive me for assuming, but no one comes to Darkshire for a good time." She said apologetically and hurried off to serve more patrons.

Sylendra waited what she thought was bordering on incivility, having long finished a small and disappointing portion of sour fruit and stale bread. She left the cider unfinished after a sip, which at first seemed pleasant, warm with spices but the texture was almost slimy and left a strange sickly sweet aftertaste. At last she saw entering the tavern, a stern looking woman with black hair tied back, dressed in the Night Watch regalia. The woman approached Sylendra at once upon spotting her and introduced herself as Commander Althea Ebonlocke, the Mayor's daughter and leader of the Night Watch.

"I won't lie, we're in a bad state here," The Commander began at once in a brusque but professional manner. "I'm sure you've heard, but our village has been suffering from these Worgen and undead for as long as anyone can remember. They crawl through the streets at night, all but invisible is this damned fog, terrorizing our people or snatching them from their beds. However, we have reason to believe that they are united under a single master. We suspect someone in the village is a powerful necromancer and is responsible for these horrid atrocities." Commander Althea asked Sylendra sharply, "What do you think?"

Sylendra started slightly at the sudden question. "Well, it is possible," she admitted, "Worgen are as repulsed by the undead as you or I, it is unlikely they would align themselves unless directed by another more intelligent being, probably human. Do you know where the Worgen are coming from?" Sylendra asked with interest.

Commander Ebonlocke seemed satisfied and continued, "We think the Worgen are camped in the forest just west of the village. They attack my men at the town hall about every other night." She looked away and sighed, "In fact, we lost two in those woods on patrol there last night." She continued again in her professional manner, "We suspect the Worgen of course, but we haven't found any remains to know for sure."

"How dreadful," Sylendra responded genuinely.

The Commander went on, "Most of the undead come from the Tranquil Gardens Cemetery to the south. There's hundreds of bodies buried there over the centuries and at any moment one of them could rise up against us."

"What do you know about the supposed necromancer?" Sylendra inquired.

Commander Ebonlocke continued as if the words were worn and wearisome on her tongue, "East from the village about a mile out of town is an old abandoned cottage called Beggar's Haunt. We urge folks not to hunt or gather in the woodlands near the place but, times are desperate around here as you can see. People go missing in those woods. It's easy enough to get lost out there in that blasted fog and fall into a rocky ravine or get sucked into a bog, but we think something is taking them because…" The Commander's voice became low. "Well, sometimes we find parts. And when the wind is right, you can hear the most terrible screams. We think the necromancer performs rituals up there. We've sent two groups to investigate and neither returned. I certainly won't send any more of my soldiers to their deaths."

Sylendra was beginning to have the slightest reservations about coming to Darkshire now. Before she could speak, Althea Ebonlocke cleared her throat then seemed to be choosing her words carefully, "I'm not sure if I should mention this, as we're very close in our own investigation… We've only one suspect, but substantial evidence. A witch who lives on the east road on the edge of the woods not far from Beggar's Haunt. She calls herself a Seer, an alchemist. She even claims to talk to the spirits of the dead! But all she practices is poison and dark magic! She has the only land in the village untouched by corruption and she's never bothered by undead. She's doing it."

"I would like to see this evidence. It can be difficult to find solid traces of these types of magics if one does not know how to look." Sylendra replied, eager to examine something she had never been allowed to research in the private annals of The Explorer's League. The League had a strict policy on certain dark magics and knowledge about it was prohibited.

"I'm afraid I can't share that. It may compromise things, you understand. We're close to a solution as it is. It seems you've come too late." Commander Ebonlocke said unapologetically and looked towards the door, implying she was ready to leave.

"I see," Sylendra said thinly. "Well, there's more I can do, I'm certain. I'd like to see the town records. Births, deaths, marriages, taxes, etc."

"Deaths? Taxes? Whatever for?" the Commander rounded on her in surprise.

Sylendra responded good-naturedly, "Part of our investigative process in Stormwind."

Althea Ebonlocke replied in a flat voice, "I'm afraid that won't be possible. The other night those Worgen broke into the Town Hall, tore up the place, and stole or destroyed many of our historic records. We suspect they've taken them to their camp, but Light knows for what purpose."

Sylendra nodded tersely and relented, deciding it was unlikely she would get any more information she let a polite smile touch her lips. "Worgen in the woods to the west, you say? Perhaps I can do something about them."

Commander Ebonlocke seemed genuinely relieved at the offer of help and informed Sylendra of a path behind the town hall building that led into the wild vales in the west then added in a strained voice, "Do tell me if you find anything of my men…"

The Commander excused herself and upon spotting a rowdy table of off duty Night Watchmen went over and seemed to shout at them a bit before finally leaving the tavern. Sylendra reflected over the leads she had been given and tried to wonder if it all fit together. The theory of a necromancer was a sound one, but she still doubted the Worgen would align themselves in any way with such a practitioner of the most evil arts. As for who the necromancer was, usually the 'witch of the woods' was just a lonely old crone with an exotic herb garden and a severe case of cataracts. But add the corruption and the everlasting gloom of Duskwood and even those with limited imagination can regularly conjure frightful nightmares to their beds. If the old woman's land was truly unbothered by the deathly decay that permeated all of Duskwood then that would indicate quite the opposite of evil magic as one tenet of Elune teaches that Darkness cannot exist in the Light. Still, the old woman would probably be worth investigating. And what would Worgen want with historical records unless they were indeed stealing them for someone else? The Worgen were cursed feral creatures of little motivation beyond basic survival. The Commander's reasoning behind the mysterious events in Darkshire appeared to hold water, Sylendra thought with a frown, but there was still something... wrong. At last she made up her mind and deciding to begin with the Worgen, she took up her bag and staff then went out again into the icy wet twilight.

Sylendra drew her hood as she crossed the village square and went around the side of the town hall as indicated by Commander Ebonlocke and there she found a path that would have been imperceptible had it not been marked by a single standing torch. The Commander's words of what awaited her in those wilds were still quite fresh on her mind and now that she gazed into the black misty thicket that housed those horrors, vivid images flooded her mind of gore soaked maws with putrid breath and fiends of rotten flesh leaving entrails and maggots behind as it lumbered through the darkness. She tried to imagine the lush towering trees of Shadowglen that she remembered from her days as an apprentice of Elune, instead of these strange wild woods that grew atypical for this area, some approaching 50 ft in circumference. The massive trunks of ancient mossy oaks and twisted junipers seemed to press down upon her from the unnatural wildness of their growth and as she passed beneath their creaking, vine-laden branches she could herself being swallowed by the liquid blackness of the night.


	4. Wolves at Our Heels

The smile departed his face as Lohgan set off towards the village under a starless velvet sky and to his utter dismay, through the chilly mist that had thickened into a foul almost viscous fog. Leaving the comforting heat of the little cottage filled him with an almost overwhelming despair. A dreadful sensation weeped into his chest every time he set foot under the eternal night sky and nothing in that Light-forsaken backwoods wasteland could quell the waves of hopelessness that crashed in his heart. Lohgan could not imagine a single thing he would not give to escape Darkshire forever with his gran. He pulled his warm woolen cape tightly about him as he went along the twisting road, trying to numb the growing darkness that hazed his mind. He had seen the sunlight once long ago, when he helped his newly married sister Alyssa move to her husband's small family farm in Lakeshire, but the fleeting memory only caused in him an aching pain of loss.

He inhaled a deep quivering breath but abruptly coughed, the fetid air made him nauseous and as it filled his lungs it gave him the queerest sensation of drowning on land. His chest grew tight as a sudden rage welled in him and a darkness seized his mind. He hated Darkshire! He hated living in eternal night. He hated that he was cursed to damnation simply for his misfortune of being born.

He felt a faint subtle heat begin to radiate over his heart and his hand went automatically to the Tome in his chest pocket. A thin ghost of a smile formed on his face as he felt the minor protection enchantment begin to ease his inner strife. He focused inwardly on the sensation, willing his mind and heart to grow calm. As they frequently did, his grandmother's words from lessons long past drifted through his thoughts, 'Discipline your mind and it cannot control you.'

He gave himself a little shake and forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand.

If this Sylendra Nightweave isn't here to help Darkshire as she claims, then why is she here? If Darkshire is doomed like Gran says, does that mean the Night Elf is connected in some way? He quickly dismissed the notion, intuition told him it was unlikely for an unknown Night Elf from Stormwind to wander into their little village to rain death and destruction upon them.

After careful consideration, curiosity decided his next course of action. He would simply be direct; he would introduce himself to the Night Elf, offer his assistance as a concerned citizen, then covertly judge her every move to figure out her motives and then… Well, he'd cross that bridge when he arrived. Besides, there wasn't much else to do in Darkshire and if anything it was an unspoken tradition among the villagers that one was more than entitled to meddle in the affairs of others for self amusement.

The air grew clearer and even tolerable as he approached the cobbled village square, empty except for two figures. He watched them from the shadow of a house adjacent to the plaza. He was certainly no thief or rogue, but it was not difficult to get around Darkshire without being seen. Mayor Ebonlocke and his daughter, Commander Ebonlocke, stood at the foot of the town hall steps, engaged in conversation, the occasional words of their talk drifted across the empty court. He wasn't sure where he would find the Night Elf now, but he supposed the tavern would be a fair place to start. He darted across the street and edged along the side of the tavern, keeping out sight. He peered around the corner to the entrance of the tavern. He doubted he would be able to enter without drawing the disdainful gaze of the Ebonlockes, whom he particularly avoided. He had just decided to try to peek through one of the grimy diamond paned windows when words of their conversation caught his attention.

"I told her everything. She's gone into Brightwood Forest to 'deal with' the Worgen," Lohgan overheard the commander of the Night Watch say with a derisive tone.

"Oh, how wonderful. Perhaps that will take care of that problem." Mayor Ebonlocke responded in a wheezy laugh. "When will you begin preparations for my festival?"

"Tomorrow," She said and added in a pointed way, "I think we'll get done just in time, if I don't lose any more men."

"Ah, yes. Unfortunate, indeed. Might I suggest suspending the Cemetery patrol route for the interim? It's bound to be especially perilous this close to Hallow's End." the Mayor suggested. "Join me tonight and we'll discuss the festival arrangements."

Lohgan swallowed loudly as the figures departed in different directions. Had she truly gone into the forest? He was curious as to how she intended to deal with the Worgen and the other thrilling and equally deadly abominations of nature that lurked in the woods. He wondered if would be able to catch up to her to find out.

He crossed the empty court and up the hidden path into the wooded area west of the village ironically named Brightwood Forest from centuries ago before the shadow descended across Duskwood. As he walked under lurid twisted boughs of aged, unsightly, gnarled trees, he dimly began to wonder what he was doing there. Wandering into the treacherous haunted woods after a stranger of dubious intent, armed with only the knowledge a few spells and the comforting presence of his Tome, seemed now a bit unwise to Lohgan.

Every childhood story his granny had ever told him came rushing back with unnecessary vividness. He thought of the dead bodies that roamed the woods, the savage Worgen, the vicious Dire Wolves, the massive venomous Spiders. He shuddered and willed himself forward before he could lose his nerve.

He didn't see how anything could live or unlive in the savage thicket as he struggled through shrubs with roots that snaked and strangled all around him. When he knew he was safely out of view of the village, he pulled the wand from his bag and willed its tip to shine with a golden flame, but nothing happened. He tried again, but the wand remained lifeless. Light magic was still difficult for him even on his best day but it was especially difficult in the face of fear and frustration. He didn't understand why the Light would only occasionally yield to him. He had taught himself many spells from his grandmother's Tome as a teenager, but now as an adult there were some very simple spells he just could not master. With disgust, Lohgan gave the wand a flick, and the tip immediately ignited with a small red flame, its weak light cast ghastly shadows around him in the dark tangling growth.

His progression was extremely slow but as he got further from the village the trees began to thin and at last he could walk more easily. He paused and looked around, then held his light over the ground, looking for, what exactly he didn't know. He had never cared to learn to hunt and thus could not identify the various animal tracks imprinted in the mud, but he was at least certain none of the prints were from the Elf. He listened, but heard nothing. Though he was not able to cast a protective flame he knew the warm shielding aura of the affectionately nicknamed Divine Tome would keep him reasonably safe. Given to him by his gran years ago it was an extremely detailed, hand written collection of notes his grandmother had made over her lifetime from her first lessons with the clerics of Northshire Abbey, through her years serving as a priestess in the great Cathedral of Light in Stormwind, and even a record of her time as a healer in the Second War. It was the summation of her life's knowledge in the priestly and mystical arts. But, it was truly a special object for it had been enchanted so that one could never fill its pages. Thus the unremarkable old journal actually held within its tiny form, thousands of pages of neat tiny notes, hand copied from reference books for herb lore, alchemical recipes, spell theory, dream interpretation, even astronomy and astrology, the tarot, crystal gazing, and dream walking. He spent a great deal of his free time reading and still had not consumed a fraction of its heady knowledge. His gran had taught him the ways of the Light ever since he could remember and he treasured her wisdom greatly. He just wanted to do more, learn more! If only he could learn to wield a hammer like the great Paladins of the Silver Hand and then he could strike down an undead foe in a single flash of Holy fire! Darkshire was not an area of opportunity. He could have joined the Night Watch like every able bodied person of age is expected to, but it meant a lifetime vow of servitude to Darkshire. If you joined the Night Watch, you were never allowed to leave Darkshire again. He had absolutely no intentions of staying in that blasted, blighted land a day longer than necessary if opportunity presented itself for him and his gran.

Movement a few yards to his right froze him to the spot. It was just outside the orb of his wand's weak light, but he was sure he'd heard the underbrush tremble. Lohgan's blood ran cold as something vaguely the size of a dog darted across the path in front of him just out of view of his light and into the woods to his left. He did not need another glimpse at the thing's over numerous hairy legs to know that it hadn't been a dog or even a wolf. He turned in a circle, holding his wand high, but he heard nothing except the whispering of the wind in the trees above him. He continued on with a nervous haste in his step. He crested a small hill and to his astonishment found himself looking down at a raging bonfire, surround by two patched and shabby tents. He could just make out the form of two Worgen sitting by the fire. He extinguished the flame on the wand and stowed it as he scanned the camp for any sign of the Night Elf. He watched the beasts with rapt attention, he had never seen any of them this close before. He had caught occasional glimpses of them as they dashed around the woods near his gran's cabin. A figure seemed to suddenly materialize from the shadows and as it approached the camp, the Worgen curiously bared their fangs.

He stared in alarm as the Night Elf materialized from the bushes and approached the Worgen. He marveled as the beasts, brutishly strong and able to gut a man in a single swipe, remained seated at their fire. She was saying something to them, but he was too far away to make out the words. It hadn't occurred to him that the Worgen could possibly speak the Common language. Despite the constant nagging reminder in the back of his mind of the ever present danger and that an unseen threat could lurk in every shadow and that his next actions could quite well lead to his death, he had to get closer to listen! Lohgan began to inch forward down the ridge when he witnessed the Night Elf and Worgen gesticulating in his direction.

He jumped at a rumbling snarl behind him and whipped around. His blood turned to ice as he caught a glimpse of the Worgen mid-leap, claws outstretched for him. He remembered nothing before the impact except exquisite pain.

* * *

Sylendra peered at the forms of the docile Worgen as they sat hunched together near their fire. She longed to stretch her legs which had grown stiff from her long silent sentry behind a cluster of ferns, close to the camp. She still wasn't sure how best to approach them. She had even meditated to Elune at great length, but she knew regardless of any scenario, they were more than likely to just rip her apart on sight. But her mind kept returning to the documented instances she had found, however few, of Worgen overcoming their feral rage and regaining their sanity. After all, Night Elves were the first Worgen… The idea of being able to communicate with them first-hand and not through another's printed words thrilled her and for the moment outweighed her sense of self preservation.

She kept her wooden staff strapped to her back as she stepped quietly from behind the brush and, with her arms held slightly aloft at her waist, announced her presence with her softest voice, "Good evening. My name is Sylendra Nightweave."

The Worgen, hackles raised, fixed her with glowing yellow eyes and bared their fangs in a throaty snarl. They did not immediately leap upon her, which was a fantastic start, she mused to herself, but she could sense the rage burning up inside them.

"I only wish to speak with you," she continued in a calm voice, her palms glowed with a subtle green light as she cast, with practiced subtlety, a Soothing spell that pacified the wild spirit of most natural creatures, not knowing if it would actually have any effect on these rather unnatural beasts at all. But as the Worgen settled and their harsh snarls turned to stifled rumbling growls, she found it difficult restrain her satisfaction. But she knew she should not risk a smile as it could be interpreted as baring her own teeth, a sign of aggression in the wild.

"I am not here to harm you," she continued. "I would like to help you."

The Worgen looked at each other as if silently communicating how they should respond, the bonfire crackled merrily in sharp contrast the tense stillness of the night.

"Can you tell me why you took documents from the town hall?" Sylendra asked hopefully.

One of the Worgen gesticulated wildly then pointed a clawed finger over her shoulder towards the east while uttering a series of guttural growls. Sylendra frowned, she didn't understand a bit of it.

Sylendra jolted as a rough, strained voice croaked out from within one of the tents. "You should leave while you can."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she squinted into either tent, but she could not see who or what spoke to her. "Why?" Excitement flooded her mind and overtook her fear like the liquid courage from a bottle of sweet moonberry wine.

"You are not from the village. The fate of Darkshire does not concern you," it said in a low, somehow wet, growl.

"That is true, Darkshire is none of my business," Sylendra admitted as she detected the faint outline of a dark figure standing in one of the tents. "But unfortunately it does interest me greatly. Where is your master's lair?" Sylendra asked, more boldly than she intended. An unearthly gurgling hiss emanated from the tent that sent a quavering chill down her back.

"A vile shadow hangs in the air," it was the figure speaking to her. "Evil ripples through the night. A door will open and shatter the bonds!" Sylendra's stomach knotted and her skin crawled as the featureless shape inside appeared to twitch spasmodically in impossible convulsions. Its voice changed to a shrill carrying whisper, "Darkshire will fall under a new moon!" The two Worgen at the fire merely watched her, malicious intent glinting in their eyes.

Sylendra's mind raced with questions, but the unseen beast retreated further back into the tent and with a sputtering growl, "You are not of the village. Get out!"

She did not immediately leave but when the Worgen at the fire grew visibly agitated at her continued presence, she inclined her head politely and turned to leave. Sylendra was disappointed that she hadn't learned what she needed from the Worgen, yet on the other, she was greatly pleased that she had survived the interaction, however brief.

She had not gone more than a few steps when from the dusky thicket emerged a towering Worgen nearly eight feet tall. Under its arm it carried a bundle which it dropped carelessly next to the bonfire. Sylendra stared aghast at the crumpled unmoving form of the peculiar villager from the Town Hall.


End file.
